


And then, I guess there was none.

by Defnotmeyo



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 02:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10265951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defnotmeyo/pseuds/Defnotmeyo
Summary: Post Never Again





	

His opening gambit is awkward. But he knows he has to make it. He hasn’t touched her in a week. For that matter, she hasn’t touched him. She hasn’t come close. 

“So, Scully, you want to grab some dinner tonight or what?”

“Or what.”

It isn’t an answer or a refusal, more just a comment and it grates on him. That they could be this fucking normal about a fight with these fucking consequences. 

Mulder and Scully fight about the toothbrush and the toilet seat but 25 percent of the fights they get into actually involve one of them dying. 

“Or what.” He dumbly repeats.

She sighs, loud as a fire alarm in a mortuary. "Yeah, Mulder. Yeah.“ There goes the eyebrow. "Let’s grab some food. Seven?”

“Seven is good.”

—–

For a couple that has gone through such weird circumstances, such an unsual life, Mulder and Scully settled into a frighteningly routine level of domestic bliss. So the dinner isn’t THAT awkward. 

Jake, the Bartender, knows they usually swing by on Friday nights and he pours the glass of red, the IPA. 

It all makes Mulder a little fucking sick. 

They aren’t fighting about a phone bill here. She ran off with that… with that FUCKER without a second thought.

She doesn’t know. She never saw the wreck he was when she was gone. She wasn’t awake when he collapsed by her death bed. She didn’t bear witness to him pulling himself, gunshot, out of bed, forcing Byers’s skinny little suit over himself, and dragging his way through the snow. She has no fucking clue the ends he would go to. Scully doesn’t know.

Scully knows. And it makes her fucking furious that he thinks she doesn’t, that he has no faith in her, in her ability to follow the same rabbit holes and pathways he does. 

When Jake the Bartender sits her shepherd’s pie down in front of her, plops ribs down in front of Mulder, he gauges the awkward. Gauges the uncomfortable. He’s a bartender though, and a good one. And attractive. Sandy blonde with laugh lines for days, just starting to go gray at the temple. He’s a California boy whose wife’s job shipped him to D.C. but he is as affable as ever. He winks at Scully and slaps Mulder on the shoulder as he sets down her second wine glass. “Just pick up the tab and tip me extra, Fox. That glass is on me.”

The silence only gets angrier. 

God dammit, Mulder, Scully thinks. Now even Jake the Bartender knows something is fucked up. 

God dammit, Scully, Mulder thinks. Jake the Bartender thinks we’re fighting about my porn habit. He has no idea I thought you were dead.

—–

Mulder and Scully rarely drink much and when they do they never drive, so the walk home, Mulder’s home, is tense and quiet.

They ride the elevator, walk the hallway together, but they haven’t touched. Haven’t brushed shoulders or wrists or forearms. 

They stand in his entryway awkwardly. 

“I just…” Mulder finally sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “I just don’t understand how you could do that to me, Scully. To us." 

"To me.” She repeats. “To us.”

Mulder gets heated easily. He always has. And his fuse is lit.

“Don’t do that. Don’t just throw my words back like that. You fucked up Scully. And I don’t even get an ‘I’m sorry.’ Then I find out he fucking undressed you? UNDRESSED YOU Scully and you’re okay with that? Fuck!” He turns, walks away, aware they are trespassing into unhealthy territory at this point. 

“Oh,” she chuffs. “I get it.” Her voice is venom. “I get it now.”

Mulder is done for the moment. Defeated, deflated, defiled. 

Scully does not get heated quickly. But her fuse is short and she is lit. 

“You only give a shit when you think I’m getting fucked, Mulder.”

Richter scales could measure the sound of his jaw hitting the apartment floor. 

She’s coming at him. They are in his entry way before he shoves her against the wall and down.

He never really thought about it, but she is a physical fighter, more-so than him. He’s pushed her off a couple of times now, like when she tried corralling him during the Householder case, to back him off, but she’s rarely physically moved him away.

It makes sense. Bill Scully Jr. probably beat her til she and he knew better and she almost certainly felt the need to level every guy at Quantico

His jaw works for a second soundlessly. “I… I… Scully-”

“No, Mulder.” She is standing, and she is ice. “How many times. How many DAMN times have you done this to me? And now. Now it’s an issue.”

She’s backed him up against the couch and they are both sucking wind the same way they would after running 10 miles… or fucking.

She is in his face and inches from him and Mulder wants to throw himself off a ledge because he is hard as fuck, and pissed as hell.

“No, Mulder. You DO NOT get to do this, just because we are fucking. You don’t. You have done the same thing to me over and over and over. You think you own that chase? That frantic, think you’re dead because you dug your own grave, chase? Mulder, I wrote that fucking book!”

Their chests are positively heaving. 

“Fuck. You. Mulder.” She twines her fingers in his shirt, digs under his collar bones, wrapping her hands in his shirt. She forces him up and back against the couch so hard he falls onto it. 

“Fuck you.” She repeats. Her right hand clinches. She wants to slap the shit out of him.

“I never once held you accountable, all those times I came after you. I’ve died for you, you fucker. And I refuse to pay a debt I don’t owe.”

He is coming off the couch by the time she is halfway out the door but he manages to slam it closed in front of her face just the same, her wrist bruisingly tight in his hand. His legs are longer, after all.

—-

“You think that’s what this is about, Scully? You fucking think that?” The door is closed and he’s up against her, their faces inches apart. He’s breathing so heavy he weirdly worries about brushing his teeth.

He shoulders her into the door. She’s wearing a skirt and he already knows, KNOWS, those aren’t panty hose.

“Normal people fight about drinking out of the orange juice carton, Scully. I think you know we’re not normal.”

She bites the shit out of his earlobe… it truthfully hurts. And he groans, pushing his dick up into to her pussy through his slacks. He’s hard as hell and she’s against his living room door.

“No.” She nips him, right at his jaw. “No. We’re not.” She tugs the skin around his jawline into her mouth, sucks a little.

She’s backed him up on his couch, again, a third time now. She pushes him down. “Mulder. You run, all the time. You chase every fucking lead.”

She sits on his hips, grinds down. He groans and thrusts up.

She licks the side of his jaw again, right at his mole. “We have to be who we are through this, Mulder. Or we have to stop.”

“Stop,” he murmurs, and her skirt is off, her panties are down almost before he utters the word.

“Stop?” he asks, when she pulls his belt out of it’s loops, when he shoves his middle finger up her impossibly wet snatch; she cannot possibly be this wet for him, not now.

She rolls her eyes back, groans, gasps out, “Mulder.”

“Stop?” He pulls back his finger then thrusts his hand up hard. He is probably hurting her a bit but he’s on to her now. She falls forward on his chest.

He is as limp as a weak hand shake.

He dives down, does the king’s business, and then he bites her a bit, on his way up her thighs. 

He’s finally managed to get hard. She’s been on the verge of cumming. 

“Stop?”

“No, don’t stop.”

She cums, finally. He’s worked his ass off to maintain himself, and he knows things are decidedly… Not. Good.

“Did it take you that long with Ed?”

It comes then, with him drilling his first two fingers in and out of her. Like a crack of lightening. The center of the storm. She’s off his dick but her palm whaps across his face; it’s a hearty slap.

“Mulder. Fucking you has not left you open to criticize my work, or my ethic. You went to Antarctica. But I went to the opposite side. And you don’t get to tell me who left more of themselves out on that ice.”

She’s out of the apartment. Of course she didn’t stay.

But she turned before she left. “And no. It didn’t take that long, with Ed.” The door has rattled.

Maybe it’s not such a good idea, to fuck your partner.


End file.
